


Extra Heresy

by Sister of Silence (Orcbait)



Series: Ars De Esse Parenti [2]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Dark Comedy, Explicit Language, F/M, Family Drama, Tragedy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:16:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orcbait/pseuds/Sister%20of%20Silence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><img/><br/><strike>The Emperor's social skills are made of fail; the Primarchs quarrel like the brothers they are; Abaddon has a nice side gone rusty with disues and - oh yea! - the Primarchs have daughte</strike>*BLAM* EXTRA HERESY!</p><p>[CONFIRM: Erase Log?]<br/>[YES]<br/>Erasing...</p><p>[CONFIRM: Rewrite Summary?]<br/>[YES]<br/>Loading...</p><p>For once in his miserable, choleric life First Captain Ezekyle Abaddon does something nice! But he forgets: in the grim darkness of the far future no good deed goes unpunished...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Despoiler's Rebuttal

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Children of Gods, Children of Men](https://archiveofourown.org/works/709836) by [vividwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vividwings/pseuds/vividwings). 



> And once more, inspired by Vividwings and her awesome-cakes series of drawings and drabbles about the 'What If: The Primarchs Had Daughters'!
> 
> WARNING: 20 Mary-Sues, their Gary-Stue-y dads and the Physical God that is their (grand) father. The background characters consist of their several tens-of-thousands of technical half-brothers. The story is set at a point prior to the Horus Heresy and contains all the cantankerous familial mayhem one might expect of a family that large and bad-ass (and disfunctional).
> 
> Image was pilfered from 1d4Chan.org, of course.

_‘Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned’_  
Act III, Scene VIII, ‘The Mourning Bride’; Dramaturge Congreve, fl. M2

 

First Captain Ezekyle Abaddon strode between the colonnades of the narrow, rib vaulted ante-hall. He was on his way to the strategium. The Warmaster had summoned the Mournival for a war council and thus he had promptly returned to the ‘Vengeful Spirit’. The war effort was going well. Soon, they would force the world of Tarin into compliance.

He was approaching the grand stairway to the quarterdeck when he saw her. She stood within the shadow of a column, gazing out at the spacescape beyond through one of the immense lancet ports lining the vast passageway. In the distance, the war-torn bulk of the Gloriana-Class Battleship ‘Conqueror’ loomed against a backdrop of green nebula clouds and Sixty-Three-Fifty’s asteroid belt. It was easily the ugliest ship Abaddon had ever laid eyes on, and he had seen many. His gaze returned to the girl and there was something about her posture, about the way she stood with her back towards the command bridge that made him pause. On a whim, he turned and strode towards her. 

She was _tall_. Practically as tall as Loken, if he were to hazard a guess. She wore white and blue, sleeveless military fatigues – the kind normally worn by Astartes when they were off duty. Thin, corded muscles were clearly visible across her exposed arms and even along her slender neck. Her long, black hair had been shaven up at the sides and bound tightly in a fashion that was not unlike his own. There was something familiar about her built – the strong thighs, the slight barrel shape of her chest, the square, straight set of her shoulders – something not quite in proportion for a mere mortal. And she was _tall_. His gaze lingered on her as he wondered who she was. 

“You all right?” he asked gruffly once he had reached her. His height and sheer bulk, encased as it was in his pitch black Justaerin Terminator armour, dwarfed the girl despite her considerable stature. She glanced sideways and up at him when he spoke. The moment he saw her profile turn towards him, he realised who she was. The straight, aquiline nose flanked by steep, axe-stroke angled cheekbones. The way her pale, deep-set eyes narrowed at him as her lips turned into a thin line: she was Angron’s daughter, there was no mistaking it. He tried to remember her name but failed. It had a similar ring to it as the primarch’s... 

Her resemblance to the Nucerian gladiator was uncanny; her features were truly a slightly finer, faintly more feminine, miniature cast of the primarch’s - safe for her eyes. While Angron’s were a Carpan’s predatory green, hers were the pale blue of a winter sky. Those piercing, intelligent eyes reminded him of every Alpha Legionnaire he had ever met... and of his own gene-sire. He thought she looked more like Horus than his own daughter did. Athyrea possessed the familial likeness of a daughter to her father but she – Angron’s daughter – truly resembled Horus in the way he himself and his battle-brothers did. The realisation tugged at his sense of kinship in a way no other outsider ever had. Despite himself, he wondered what she was like when she fought. She did not appear to carry any weapons. Perhaps, like Angron, she did not necessarily need any to wreck bloody carnage? Part of him would very much like to see that. She must be competent. He doubted any of her gene-kin would go easy on her, her primarch least of all. 

“Captain...?” Her voice ripped him out of his thoughts as effectively as a bucket of iced water would have. Even the timbre and pitch of her voice were similar to Angron’s and so unlike Athyrea’s perfect lilt. It had a faint, feminine cast to it, like an undercurrent below the jarring rawness that made listening to World Eaters such a chore. It chafed like a handful of gravel against the steel of his ears. And yet he wished she’d say more. She looked at him from the corner of her eyes, evidently thinking, a little frown wrinkling the bridge of her nose. “...Abaddon?” she added after a moment. She did not turn further towards him. 

He nodded curtly, irritated she had not immediately known his name and neglected to mention his seniority amongst the Luna Wolves’ officer cadre as First Captain. Her brusque manner hardly came as a surprise. 

“I am well,” she replied then, and it was apparent she possessed Angron’s skills at lying too. Abaddon would never claim he knew everything there was to know about the opposite gender, but even he could tell she was not well at all. 

“What is it?” he inquired gruffly. When an oddly familiar, stubborn cast hardened her features as she started to turn back towards the lancet port, he put a gauntlet to her shoulder and turned her around to face him. He did so firmly, but not without care. He did not think she was quite as sturdy as an Astartes. 

The moment he saw her face fully, his gaze fell on the mark across her cheek. Though it was fading he could still see the outline of knuckles against her coppery skin. He did not need to remove his gauntlet to know they were larger than his own – than those of any Astartes, for that matter. As the implications of his realisation sank in, his infamous temper coiled within his chest. Perhaps it was simply because he could so easily see his own battle-brothers in her marred features, but the black bile suddenly roared through his veins, burning like molten slag as it turned his righteous anger into sudden, blinding, suffocating rage. 

“Nothing,” she repeated sternly, but he could see water brim beneath her pale eyes as she pointedly looked away again. Her likeness to Horus made the sight all but preposterous – and so different from the petulant streaks of water that regularly left Athyrea’s eyes. So, this was what ‘tears’ looked like then...? It only fanned his spewing fury further. 

As he seethed, he caught something flitting briefly below the surface of her eyes: recognition, comprehension... and then abject terror. With a titanic effort, he resisted the urge to howl and vent his rage. Undoubtedly, such an outburst had been exactly what had left her marred so in the first place. He refused to succumb to it and struggled to bridle his fury down, scolding himself in check. When he was once more in control of himself he let go of her slim shoulder. He lifted his gauntlet and caught the blemished side of her face as gently as the ceramite would allow. The ugly, incriminating bruise disappeared from sight behind the black plate and made her features seem whole again. She glanced up at him as he did so and when she put her small hand across his large, gauntleted one, a single streak leaked from her eyes. He tried to smile. 

  


\-----------------------------------------------------------------

  


The strategium was a great, semi-circular platform jutting out into the vast command theatre of the ‘Vengeful Spirit’s bridge. Far below them laid the principal command deck, which was thronged with hundreds of uniformed personnel small as ants from this great height. To either side the hive-like tiers of sub-decks comprising the many navigation and communication platforms rose up, past the level of the stratigium and further up to the very roof itself. Each level was busy with operators, cogitator and logitator officers and countless astropaths. The frontal dome of the bridge comprised five monumental equilateral arches with circular motifs in their traceries through which the blue-marbled sphere of Tarin – now Sixty-Three-Fifty – could be seen, as well as the baleful shape of the ‘Conqueror’ and the sleek perfection of the ‘Pride of the Emperor’. 

The strategium deck itself was a plasteel-wrought platform that jutted out towards the great frontal arches. At its centre sat a circular dais of plain, unfinished ouslit ten meter in diameters. The walk space around the dais was half-shadowed by the overhang of tiered galleries that climbed the sloping walls behind it. They were empty now, but normally they would be filled with senior iterators, tacticians and ship captains of the 63rd Expedition Fleet as well as other notables, gathered to view the proceedings of Horus’ war council. These councils were held standing, all in equality, even the Warmaster. However, this meeting was of a more private, and less formal, nature and thus seats had been placed around the dais for the comfort of those present. The battle standards of the Luna Wolves, the Emperor’s Children and the World Eaters hung from banner poles around them, behind the primarchs, together with the banner of the Warmaster himself. 

Lucrece brought a slender, gloved hand to her mouth and suppressed a yawn, pretending not to see the reprimanding look her lord-father shot her. Fulgrim sat beside her, at her uncle Horus’ right hand, straight and prim like an ancient statue and in front of the intricate banner of the Emperor’s Children. The primarch’s magnificent artificer power armour shimmered from pink to violet and all the shades in between, its golden traceries glinting in the half light. His statuesque features were as smooth and pale and perfect as marble, and framed by a curtain of shoulder-length, pristinely white hair that shone with a pearlescent lustre. His large, shapely dark eyes formed a natural contrast that made them all the more pleasant to behold. 

“I would see you finish the compliance of this star system _together_ , brothers,” Horus spoke in his soothingly deep voice. Lucrece thought he appeared as magnificent as ever. Imposing and regal, his massive form wrapped in white-gold Terminator armour and exquisite pelts. His head was bare – shaven - his coppery skin deeply tanned. His visage was noble, with broad, chiselled features, cliff-like cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His wide-spaced eyes were a wintery blue and his teeth a pearly, gleaming perfection when he smiled. However, Horus was not smiling now, his expression one of grim determination. The black, velvet cloth and staring eye motif of the banner behind him merely reinforced his suddenly adamant demeanour; as did it’s ominous motto, embellished in gold threaded script: ‘I am the Emperor’s vigilance and the Eye of Terra.’ His austere, decisive tone left nothing to conjecture - ‘Uncle Horus’ had been replaced by ‘The Warmaster’. Lucrece suppressed a shiver. The sudden change was pleasantly intimidating. 

“The _Emperor_ ’s Children do not need World Eaters to mop up after them,” Fulgrim said icily in response to Horus’ words, his baritone voice a lilting perfection. She liked to listen to them when they spoke, their voices as music to her ears. Fulgrim had looked at Horus when he spoke, but now his dark gaze shifted to the other primarch present: Angron.

A magnificent scowl immediately distorted Angron’s torn features at the imperious look his haughty brother gave him. “You need meek beaten targets,” he growled back, the sound like rolling thunder welling up from somewhere deep within his chest. The gravelly quality of his bass voice grated on Lucrece her delicate ears. “High Riders,” he added with a derisive snort and spat beside him in contempt. The mucus splattered on the stone dais. It was flecked with blood. 

Lucrece cast her bellicose uncle an ill-concealed look of revulsion from across the table. Fortunately, he did not see, for his shockingly green eyes were fixed upon her lord-father. They were deep set above wide cheekbones that angled down like axe-strokes along a strong, aquiline nose and towards a broad, thin-lipped mouth whose corners were perpetually arched downwards. The swath of red war paint across his eyes unkindly drew attention to the piercing, predatory orbs and did little to mask the myriad of scars crisscrossing his features like a fractured statue. Though his scalp was cleanly shaven, like Horus, the cables and wires lodged to the back and side of his skull gave the impression of coppery and steely dreads. 

Lucrece didn’t like him, for his barbaric dress and habits jarred her refined senses. His power armour was comprised of ancient, little adorned bronze plate. It was dented and stained, and clearly never repaired or even cleaned. He wore tanned leather with it and crimson cloth whose gold stitching had long since frayed. A thick animal pelt that made him seem more massive still was draped around his shoulders; the chains and animal skulls weaved into the mottled brown fur doing nothing to assuage his uncultured appearance. Not that he was ugly, none of her uncles truly were, but from all of them he was certainly the least easy on the eyes. He was shorter, stockier and bulkier than her lord-father and uncle Horus – like a foul-tempered bull Grox beside a pair of elegant Mistiquecorns. She thought the comparison apt and wrinkled her nose in disgust. 

Captain Khârn was sitting at Angron’s right hand, but the seat to his left was empty. Ankeara had not arrived with them. Now she, she was ugly; muscly and ill-proportioned and unsophisticated like her sire. Lucrece doubted any man would ever be interested in Ankeara. 

“Beat them into blood paste, you mean?” Fulgrim replied haughtily. “Horus, I refuse to work alongside him and those rabid dogs he calls his sons.” 

Angron growled, his pale eyes flashing with the igniting kindling of his choleric disposition. “Say that again, _brother_...” he threatened as the muscles in his thick neck flexed and the chains around his forearms clinked as his hands clenched into fists. 

“Brothers, _please_ ,” Horus interjected sternly. 

Lucrece glanced at her friend, Athyrea, who sat at Horus’ left side. Athyrea was _so_ pretty, she could have been her swarthy complexioned twin sister! The way she had once more curled her naturally led-straight hair into a cascade of auburn curls especially pleased Lucrece. She thought Athyrea looked lovely, despite the ugly expression marring her nigh perfect features: her large, grey eyes were stormy and her full, curved lips pointedly turned downward into a glorious pout. Lucrece was fairly sure that had everything to do with the empty seat beside Athyrea. She wondered briefly what kept the hunky First Captain of her favourite uncle’s Legion from joining them. It was not like him to miss an opportunity to argue. On the other side of the First Captain’s empty seat, and effectively next to Captain Khârn, sat Captain Aximand, whose given name was also Horus. Although, for reasons unknown to her, the other Mournival captains always called him ‘little’ Horus. 

“I will not debase myself and my Legion with bloody-handed slaughter to humour our ‘brother’ his boorish habits,” Fulgrim fumed indignantly. His gaze briefly flicked to Horus before continuing to glare at Angron. 

A fierce grin curled itself across the other Angron’s features and contorted the remnants of his noble visage into a savage mask. “All war is… is _slaughter_...” he commented, his deep, gravelly voice thrumming with an undercurrent of violence as he licked his thin lips. It left them stained red with his own blood. 

Fulgrim pulled a face as if he had just found something incredibly foul under the sole of his ceramite boot. “Lout,” he sniffed. 

Angron barked a laugh, which had nothing to do with true mirth. “Coward!” 

Lucrece sighed with boredom. She had long since stopped listening to what her lord-father and uncles said. Her lord-father always made her come to war councils, so that she would learn the difficulties and intricacies of command. All she had learned from those assemblies thus far was how to argue underhandedly. Not for the first time this evening her eyes wandered covertly to the Astartes sitting to her left. She found him incredibly interesting. He was nothing like the other captains of the Mournival and, in fact, reminded her of a younger variety of the lamentably deceased Captain Sejanus. He had that same kind-hearted, unsullied look to him with his soft, friendly features, candid expressions and straw blonde hair – so rare among the dark haired Luna Wolves. The light smattering of freckles across his high cheekbones and nose bridge were especially attractive. He was so very handsome; he could have been one of her own brothers, if not for the golden shade of his hair! 

When his gaze moved sideways and chanced upon hers, she cast her eyes down only to look up at him from under her long eyelashes. He smiled kindly, if a little awkwardly, in response. Surreptitiously, she shifted a bit closer to him. And, after a furtive glance at her lord-father to ascertain his attention was elsewhere, she slipped her slender hand under the table and put it on the captain’s fatigues-clad thigh. He shifted nervously at her touch, and it sent an exited little shiver down her spine. She hardly ever spent time with Astartes from outside her lord-father’s Legion. The guileless, alarmed look that appeared in his sky-blue eyes as she brushed her hand up to his hip was simply too good to be true. She savoured the highly forbidden thoughts it conjured in her mind like an exquisite wine. 

Fulgrim and Angron were still flinging insults at each other. 

“Mooncalf,” Fulgrim hissed through a set of perfect teeth. 

“Bitch face,” Angron growled back, baring uncannily predatory fangs. 

“Asshole!” Fulgrim snapped. 

“Fag!” Angron barked. 

“ _ENOUGH_!” Horus roared, and he slammed his fist onto the table. Lucrece almost jumped out of her skin and pulled her hand back as if stung. To their credit, Fulgrim and Angron ceased their name-calling immediately. Although they kept giving each other looks that promised nothing but ill. Lucrece glanced out of the corner of her eyes at the Mournival captain beside her – what was his name again? It didn’t matter. He was pointedly avoiding her gaze. She almost giggled. 

It was then that she saw the fourth voice of her uncle’s unofficial conscience look in her direction from beside the other captain. She was not sure if he had seen what had transpired, but there was most definitely an incredibly ill-concealed smirk playing around his lips as he looked at his battle-brother. 

Horus sighed as he heavily sat back down. “Girls,” he added as he indicated the two of them with a wave of his large hand. “Leave us.” 

“But...!” Athyrea started, her previous pout turning positively petulant at the prospect of being excluded. However, Horus’ warning glare silenced her promptly. “Yes, father,” she amended in the type of sulky tone only she could pull off. For once it did nothing to soften the Horus’ stony expression. It was then that Lucrece’s own lord-father glanced sideways and down at her, a brief smile alleviating his uncharacteristic scowl. “Off with you, little angel,” he said softly. 

Lucrece nodded and rose. She had no want for being around when they started ripping into each other. She glanced at the Mournival captain as she passed; delighting in the momentary relief visible in the blue eyes and the surreptitious elbow prod his battle-brother gave him. Smiling, rather pleased with herself, Lucrece pulled the quietly fuming Athyrea along by the arm. 

  


\-----------------------------------------------------------------

  


Athyrea pulled her arm from Lucrece her grasp the moment the doors to the stratigium closed behind them. Where in the Warp was Ezekyle? Why had he not come? She had barely seen him at all due to the campaign! If she had not known better, she would have thought he had been avoiding her. 

She quietly fumed as they descended down the broad stairway, Lucrece following her like a ghostly white and pink shadow. It was then that she saw him – them, that she saw _them_. They stood off to the side, half behind one of the tall columns lining the ante-hall; like conniving thieves in the shadows of the grand arches. But she saw them – _him_ , Ezekyle, with… Her eyes narrowed dangerously when she saw the fatigues and realised who it was the First Captain was standing so very close to. Why, of all people on the Great Crusade, did it have to be _her_? She hated her. Even more, now. 

“So, that’s what Zeki’s been up to!” Lucrece teased in that irritatingly singsong voice of hers. “Maybe he thinks you’re too dull?” 

“Shut up!” Athyrea hissed. She had halted abruptly, quite in the middle of the stairway, the moment Abaddon had stopped Ankeara from walking away. When he reached up to cup her face, Athyrea could feel her fury coil. 

“Maybe, he’s going to her because… he wants to play-fight a little?” Lucrece chirped from beside her, her dark eyes flashing with ill-concealed excitement. “Chase her around the room a bit and wrestle her down before---” Her own giggling interrupted her speech. 

Athyrea could feel the heat of embarrassment rise to her cheeks despite herself at the thought, and judging by Lucrece’s chortle it was visible too. “Nonesense,” she interrupted her friend sternly. Lucrece was just being stupid. 

“Are you suuuuure?” Lucrece teased. “Did he not ever try? Maybe you just did not recognise it!” She giggled again. “Thanks to Hastur, you are as exciting as a fat, dead Grox, Atha!” 

“Don’t you dare spea---!” Athyrea hissed venomously, but she stopped herself. Lucrece would tire of teasing her sooner if she stopped paying attention to it. She turned her gaze back to Abaddon and Ankeara, and when they embraced the liquid fire coursing through Athyrea’s veins all but spewed forth from her blue eyes. Did they embrace or…? Was it just an embrace? It was impossible to tell from this angle. It did not matter. Ezekyle was going to be sorry, so very, _very_ sorry… for _himself_. 

“I bet,” Lucrece whispered across her shoulder, her words interrupted by yet another giggle. “ _She_ knows just how to satisfy his… ‘ _rage_ ’...!” 


	2. Salt Meets Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abaddon finally seeks out Athyrea, and Athyrea is not happy to see him. One wonders why. Certainly, the necessary fireworks ensue. Meanwhile, Lucrece is looking for someone and Ankeara is honing her skills at the gymnasium.

_“The first human to hurl an insult instead of a stone was the founder of civilisation”_  
Doctor Medicus mentalica Freud, fl. M2

 

Water drummed loud as a thundering waterfall onto the smooth plasteel. The noise was deafening and drowned out the flip-flops of Lucrece her gilded slippers. She had wandered into the decontamination area of Fifth Deck, searching for the Mournival captain – the new one, the handsome one, the one that seemed so much like Captain Sejanus. She wondered where he could be. She had not seen him since the war council. 

It would seem her warrior-brothers were to make war alongside Ankeara's uncivilised brethren. She knew what that meant. Her nose wrinkled in disgust at the thought of having to spend time with Ankeara and suffer her least favourite uncle's baleful presence. She would ask her lord-father if she could stay here, with Athyrea, for a while. Then she would also have more time to befriend the captain! Surely he would like that? Yes, she would ask her lord-father this very evening. She nodded decisively in agreement with herself. 

The decontamination area of Fifth Deck smelled of carbolic soap and was warm and shrouded in steam due to the hot, pouring water up ahead. However, the heat did not bother Lucrece for the thin, white gauze of her ruffled, strapless dress was airy and hung loosely about her form. She wore a narrow, gold-threaded corselet over it that nudged under her bosom and amply displayed the pale curves of her breasts. Her white hair tumbled about her bare shoulders in a heap of perfect ringlets. The decontamination area itself was all plasteel and non-skid plastek. Even the walls were straight, unimaginative plasteel and divided the containment hall into smaller compartments. Only the last cubicle appeared occupied, as a stream of water and foam ran from it to the central drain. 

Lucrece lifted her skirts up as she approached the stream of water, tip-toeing across it. She hoped her slippers would not be damaged. The Emperor Himself had gifted them to her for her name day this very year. They had been crafted by gold smiths from Ancient Terra! She dreaded the thought of spoiling them. She was certain the Emperor would be most disappointed with her, and she didn’t want that! The only thing she dreaded more was disappointing her lord-father. 

Only when she had crossed the stream and rounded the divider wall shrouding the compartment from view, did she see the bathing Astartes. He stood with his back towards her, under a veritable downpour of hot water. As is usually the case when people took a shower, the Astartes was stark naked. Lucrece watched, quite mesmerized, as the water ran across him and the steam coiled around him. The water splashed in a torrent between his shoulder blades and rushed down his broad frame, breaking into tiny rivers along the hard muscles lining his back and tumbling towards his firm butt. The muscles in his back flexed as he reached for his clean-shaven scalp and the miniature river delta running down his backside shifted. Lucrece recognised him even without seeing his face. It was not whom she had been looking for. 

“Captain Aximand,” she hailed him. 

The Luna Wolf started at the sudden hail and a bar of carbolic soap clattered to the ground. However, he recovered quickly and glanced over his shoulder, turning only partially towards the voice. It was Lucrece. As ever, she appeared to be wearing short of nothing – he could easily see the outline of her slender limbs underneath the translucent fabric. His gaze lingered on the silvered necklace around her neck and the faintly glinting ruby of its medallion, so red against the soft, smooth flesh it laid upon. There was something mesmerizing about them--- it, about _it_ , the ruby. 

Lucrece leaned her head slightly sideways as her gaze wandered down the captain’s tall frame and she cast a glance past his half-turned hips. A confused little frown creased her smooth brow as she pursed her shapely lips. She did not understand why the others insisted on calling the captain ‘little’ Horus. She knew why he was named Horus. The resemblance to her favourite uncle was striking. Even his build appeared similar. Of course, uncle Horus was far taller, but still. However, the captain did not seem very little to her. Perhaps Luna Wolves were more generously graced than her beloved warrior-brothers? That would explain many things. There had to be some reason Athyrea liked Ezekyle, and it sure weren’t his charming personality or winning social graces. 

When Aximand finally managed to look up at her, his expression darkened. It was not a scowl exactly, but it certainly was not happiness to see her either. “Princess Lucrece,” he returned formally and quite stiffly. He turned further towards the wall, concealing his hips from direct view when he caught her sidelong glance. 

Lucrece wondered if his smile would be as dazzling as her uncle’s. She had never seen ‘little’ Horus smile. She was certain it would make him look far more handsome than his usual, saturnine expression. “I have not seen Ezekyle either,” he added as he stepped from under the downpour and snatched up the cloth he had brought. He tucked it around his waist before turning towards Lucrece, something she lamented greatly. 

A frown wandered onto Lucrece her statuesque features then. Why would she be looking for Ezekyle? “I'm not looking for him...” she said, her gaze mapping the canvas of scars across the captain's broad chest now that more interesting areas had been concealed from her view. 

“Tarik went down to the armoury, on Second Deck,” Aximand said at that. When Lucrece her gaze finally found his, one of his eyebrows arched up when she shook her head. “Garviel?” he asked. “ _You_ are looking for Garviel?” 

So that was his name! Lucrece nodded happily. “Have you seen him?” 

“Tenth Deck, I imagine,” Aximand replied. Lucrece smiled broadly at him, before turning around and skipping away. Aximand frowned and scratched the back of his head as he watched her go. 

  


\-----------------------------------------------------------------

  


Athyrea sat at her dressing table, brushing the pressed curls out of her auburn hair while moodily glowering at herself in the mirror. It was large and oval and held in an ornate frame of white gold gilding, the pale wooden drawers inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She only just caught the flinch when the door to her private room suddenly opened. She did not turn, instead looking at the door via her mirror. It was no accident the dressing table stood where it did. When she saw who it was she scowled severely. 

“Athyrea?” Abaddon called as he entered and momentarily scanned the large 'dress up' room. He had never understood why she needed an entire room for dressing. Athyrea glared at him through the mirror. He always barged in as if he owned the royal suite. Why did he not knock like a decent human being? It irked her now even more than usual. 

He was wearing the off-white fatigues of the Luna Wolves and did not appear to be wearing a shirt underneath it. Athyrea's expression darkened as she continued brushing her hair. He had still been in full battle dress when she had seen him over an hour ago. She stared balefully at the v-drop of skin and hard chest visible through his half zipped fatigue jacket. The sleeves had been pushed up almost to his elbows. The loose pants hung half-heartedly around his hips and one leg was only half tugged into his boot. It was obvious that he had dressed hastily. 

Their gazes crossed in the mirror as he approached, his strides long and fluent as he crossed the room towards her. His eyes narrowed slightly. “I couldn't find you,” he remarked, his deep voice a low rumble more akin to an earthquake than speech. “I almost thought you were... _hiding_.”

Something in his tone made Athyrea remember Lucrece's words. It also made her remember _her_. And how he had… Athyrea pointedly broke her gaze away and lifted her nose as she continued to defiantly brush her hair back into its naturally straight condition. This was the last time she let Lucrece do anything with her hair. She could feel it when Abaddon put a hand on the back of her chair. It creaked terribly when he leaned down from his great height towards her sitting form to look at her from the side. Athyrea looked at him from the corner of her eyes. A vague grin played across his surly features. Only now did she notice his coal black hair was kept together in a loose ponytail, which had slid across his shoulder as he leaned down. Several bangs had sprung loose. 

The reek of carbolic soap that accompanied him was overpowering, but not nearly strong enough to mask the lingering scent of Astartes sweat that clung to his bronzed skin. He could shower ten times, but it would not fool her. He had exerted himself. The grin in combination with his dishevelled state poured indignation like oil onto the flames of her anger. How dare he come to her after---!

He was still looking at her, his blue gaze intent upon hers. “Are you done doing that?” he inquired with a slow jerk of his head in the direction of her brush. His eyes never left hers. 

“No.” She replied pointedly, her tone icier than the void of space. 

A crease crinkled his brow as momentary puzzlement flitted across his wide features. “When will you be done?” he asked then. 

“Don't hold your breath,” she snapped back. 

He stared at her, confusion muddling his features. He then shook his head, leaned towards her and scooped her out of her chair. The brush clattered to the floor, the shattering of its porcelain handle punctuated by an indignant cry from Athyrea. Before she could even properly react she was up in his arms, cradled the way one might a babe, as he resolutely strode across her dress room to the adjacent bedroom. 

“E-zeh-KIEL!” Athyrea shrieked as she slammed a soft fist against his hard chest. Her voice pitched to a painful height. “Put me DOWN!” 

He paid her no heed. She always insisted on being difficult, as if she didn’t want it. Her astropathic missives quite unmistakably showed the contrary. He didn’t know what in the Warp it was this time but he was in no mood to humour her stupidly complicated lead up. She did that all the time and it irritated the daylight out of him. 

“E-zeh-KIIIEEEEELLLL!” Athyrea struggled in his iron grip. His hold on her caused her long dress to bunch up and show her underskirts and stockings in a particularly undignified fashion. Her heeled slippers had long since fallen from her kicking feet. Abaddon kicked the door to her spacious bedroom open with a crack that most certainly ruined the lock. 

“Let go---!?” Athyrea demanded for the umpteenth time, but her words were cut short by a yelp as Abaddon unceremoniously dumped her onto her neatly made bed. She tried to scramble up and fling a string of profanities at him but with one smooth movement he was on top of her, and promptly smothered her words with a kiss. Athyrea arched against him despite herself, a moan escaping her lips when he broke the kiss for want of air. She put her arms around his thick neck and dragged him back in. 

He pulled impatiently at her skirts, bunching them up around her waist as he returned her kiss. Athyrea yelped between their lips when one of the elastic bands holding her stockings up broke under his careless grasp and snapped back against her thigh with a vicious twang. Her fingertips dug into the fabric of his jacket and the skin of his neck as she spread her legs and savoured the press of his hips against her own. 

She moaned into their kiss as he pulled at her bodice, breaking the thin ribbons holding it closed, revealing more of the smooth breasts concealed within. She arched towards his touch when he palmed the soft flesh, his free hand reaching between her legs, seeking the inviting warmth there. She whimpered at the intimate touch and buried her nose against the crook of his neck, his masculine scent invading her mind. And then she remembered. 

He groaned when he felt how ready she was. And he grunted when the air was suddenly knocked out of him by a knee jammed into his midriff. He recovered, found her gaze and glared at her. She glared right back at him. His grip on her hip tightened and he leaned down to kiss her and the sharp slap rung loud as a gong in his ears. 

“Get out,” Athyrea hissed, her chest heaving with barely concealed excitement but her expression one of cold fury. If he thought she was as easy as that ill-bred whore he was sorely mistaken. 

Abaddon’s earlier confused frown broke through his scowl and then made place for a grin that tugged uncertainly at his lips. He leaned close to her; his broad frame pressed against her slighter one, and nudged his nose against hers. “Or else?” he inquired. 

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “I will tell Horus what you did.” 

That broke the spell, all right. His lips curled up into a vicious snarl at her words. She could all but see his temper coil around him. His breathing was heavy, the muscles in his neck and arms straining, like a hound on a leash about to snap. He looked her up and down, his gaze scourging and hateful. Its intensity startled her despite herself. 

Quite suddenly, he rose and stalked away. She grabbed the crystal karaf from the nightstand and hurled it at his back. It shattered against the manhandled doorpost with the ring of a thousand thronegelds lost. “And stay away!” she screamed after him. The door to her dress room slammed and plaster flaked from the sculpted ceiling. 

“I hate you,” she snapped at the closed door. “I do.” 

_It’s not fair_ , she thought as she let herself drop backwards, her eyes on the ceiling above but her gaze a thousand miles away. _Why is everything so complicated? It never used to be complicated_. For the first time in many months tears brimmed her grey eyes. _Why did you die?_ It was not how things had meant to be. Hastur wasn’t supposed to have died. One day, maybe. Not that day. Not in that way. They had stolen him from her. They had stolen him forever and made everything complicated. 

  


\-----------------------------------------------------------------

  


Abaddon stomped down the passageway, his angry footfalls loud upon the plasteel deck. What in the Warp was wrong with her? He had thought she wanted him to come by immediately – true; he had wanted to see her too. But now, now he was not so sure if he ever wanted to see her again. 

He stalked down the grand stairwell that led to the decks below, his infamous temper churning like a tempestuous sea. As always, she had caused his entire system to run amok with him: his muscles were twitching; his hands were itching for a weapon. The world was crisp, clear, and his senses focussed as adrenaline roared through his veins. He tried to control it, but she had stirred his temper, and his temper had kick-started the chemical biometrics of his Astartes battle conditioning, priming him for combat. There was no stopping it now. 

In the past decades the Legion had grown so large that the Companies had their own deck aboard the 'Vengeful Spirit', comprising their vast barracks, gymnasia, armouries and associated facilities. First Company held the deck directly below the strategium and the primarch's private quarters. As Abaddon stalked through 1st Company's barracks the Astartes of his company gave him a wide breadth. Not a single one of them hailed their captain. They knew better. Drawing his attention now was to invite the storm to rage at you. 

Abaddon made his way straight to the gymnasium. The smell of sweat and rubber greeted him like a physical wall the moment the doors unsealed. Although there were easily several hundred Astartes training in the consecutive halls, it was relatively quiet. Rarely did the shreds of a conversation reach his ears. They were all training for the coming battle. Despite his boiling rage, his mind was rigidly conditioned and even through the haze of his fury the sound stood out from among the others. It wasn't loud, not at all. In part, it was its lack of loudness that drew his attention. It wasn't exactly light, but it was _lighter, fleeter_ , and its rhythm was all together odd. It fixed into his mind like the tick-tock of a chronotrap-grenade. 

He turned on his heels, in the direction of the sound, somewhere off to his right. His pale gaze swept across the hall like a battle scanner. _Karkoth, Tralec, Heraddon..._ the names of the Astartes his gaze travelled across lighted up in his mind. Until his gaze found the right most obstacles track and fixed on someone that wasn't on his mental list. Not the one comprising his Company, at any rate. It was not one of his battle-brothers. More than the white fatigue pants made that obvious. What was she doing here? He had not expected her here. He would have thought she would train in Horus' private gymnasium, if anywhere on the 'Vengeful Spirit'. 

As Abaddon approached, she came running back to the start of the track. Although, running was not the word – there were hardly two plain steps in a row – but dancing was too soft. The leaps and twists and summersaults were too energetic, too powerful, to be elegant. They were full of raw strength honed by perfect control. She leapt up and across the wall and dropped onto the bridge, funnelling her momentum into a series of fluid handstands that carried her across the narrow bar. She sprang from its end with a roll and landed in a solid crouch directly in front of him. It would have put a jungle cat to shame. 

She rose promptly, and it was only then that he saw she was wearing a blindfold. She removed it and said, after a brief pause: “Captain Abaddon.” She spoke his name on a tone that suggested she were commenting on the state of the weather rather than greeting a senior Legion Officer. Abaddon curbed his annoyance. Again. 

“ _Princess_ Ankeara,” he replied without batting an eye. He had finally remembered her name and he had to suppress a satisfied grin when her pale eyes narrowed at him in quiet suspicion. He suspected few addressed her by her official honorific, and judging from her reaction it was more than obvious she was as fond of it as he had thought she would be. 

“Ankeara is enough,” she returned with a dismissive gesture of her hand, and then turned and walked away. 

“Quite the feat,” Abaddon remarked as he strode after her. He had seen many swift and skilful obstacle crossings, but he had never seen anyone do them blindfolded. The suspicious, sidelong glance she favoured him in response to his remark reminded him distinctly of her primarch. 

“In Desh’ea, it was thought amusing we would fight the great felines of the north blindfolded,” she replied after a moment. She made it sound as if her sightless nimbleness was nothing out of the ordinary. Abaddon highly doubted that. He did not fail to notice how she said ‘we’. 

“Can your primarch do it, too?” he inquired, trying to sound casual. He attempted to imagine it, but his mind’s eye refused. 

“Of course,” she replied with a curt nod. She dodged his questioning gaze. A lie, then. Why? 

“Not many great felines to fight here though,” he remarked with a hint of a smile. Well, one fat one, but that was another matter entirely. “Better train swordplay too.” 

“You think my skills useless?” she said sharply, stopping abruptly and turning to glare at him. Wait, what? How did she…? That was not what he had meant! “I am certain your---,” he started, but she interrupted him. 

“I challenge you, _captain_ ,” she all but growled, her pale eyes dangerous. 

“I can’t---.” He couldn’t fight her! He doubted she was strong enough to stand a chance against an Astartes. He would only wind up hurting her. And he was certain Angron was liable to break every bone in his body for it. In fact, he would probably break every bone _twice_. He couldn’t---

“Coward.” The insult cut through his stream of thoughts like a stab. 

“What did you say?” he retorted sharply, his gaze snapping onto hers. 

She grinned at him, and it made her look even more like Angron. “First Captain Ezekyle Abaddon of the Luna Wolves is a _coward_ ,” she repeated pointedly. 

So now she knew his name? That did it. The insult inflamed his earlier temper, his fury roaring back to life behind his blue eyes. “Swords. Ring. _Now_.” He barked through gritted teeth, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. How dare the brat--- he’d show her! He did not care if it pissed off Angron, he would happily fight the primarch after! His thoughts consumed by indignation over his repeatedly wounded pride, Abaddon did not notice the triumphant smile that curled around Ankeara’s lips as she led the way to the nearest sparring ring. 

Abaddon picked up one of the practise swords and weighed its balance. Ankeara was already standing in the middle of the circle, sword in hand. Relaxed, but ready. He shrugged off his fatigue jacket and entered the ring too. He nodded at her, and fell into a loose combat stance. He just considered making the opening move when she suddenly moved. She came in low, he parried, she sidestepped under his guard. He caught the jab to his chest just in time. She shifted, and their blades locked an inch from his collarbone. Breaking the lock was harder than he had anticipated. She sprang away, dodging his retaliation, and all but danced out of his reach. Warp, she was _fast_. No matter. He had strength on her. He had fought nimble opponents before. 

This time he took the initiative, leading high, switching low, and aiming for her unguarded left side. She blocked with more force than should have been possible from those slender arms. He turned his momentum and drove his shoulder into her. She stumbled but, impossibly, did not go down. Her eyes flashed with rage at his breach of engagement. They exchanged a series of furious blows that rang loud across the gymnasium and attracted the attention of others. 

They twisted and turned and jabbed and blocked until the flat of his blade slapped hard against the back of her hand, and her sword span away. A moment later, the point of his blade pressed against the nape of her throat. He grinned, satisfied. Her blue eyes spewed quiet fire. He removed the sword. “Good fight,” he remarked, and turned to leave the ring, throwing a withering glare at their onlookers. 

The angry roar behind him was oddly pitched, but no less fierce than any that might leave an Astartes’ throat. His frown had barely the time to appear onto his face. Before the meaning of the rapidly approaching footfalls registered, a sudden weight slammed into his shoulders. A weight far more than it ought to have been. He lost his balance and went down in a sprawl.

Instinctively, Abaddon rolled, twisted around and kicked her off him with a force that flung her across the ring. He had barely risen or she slammed into his chest shoulder first, barrelling him down once more. A knee dug hard into his abdomen and an elbow into his side. He tried to grapple her but she slipped from his grasp like an eel. 

A slender hand rammed under his jaw, fingers digging into the vulnerable flesh with the impossible strength of an Astartes. Like a small, iron vice the nimble fingers cut his breath. He blinked and forced his body under control. She sat straddling him, her knees dug into his sides like a mount, a snarl across her features as she squeezed his throat. 

He uttered a roar of his own and lunged for her thin wrist and tore it from his throat as he threw a punch at her slim torso. She dodged under his guard it as if it were nothing. Her hold on his throat had been a diversion. He saw it only now. Too late. There was no way he could bring his own hands back up in time. Her much smaller fist sailed towards him and connected to his face with the force of a miniature sledgehammer. He grunted and her knuckles came away bloody. 

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: A lot of time and hard work went into the creation and publication of this story and as such it is very dear to me. I would love to hear what you thought of it. And please, share this story freely but credit me and link back to me. Thank you!


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